


Lonely this Christmas

by iero0



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Christmas, Draco needs to explain himself, F/M, HP Wireless Festive Minifest 2020, Harry Needs a Hug, Harry is miserably in love, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Self-Pity, Songfic, there really is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27841477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iero0/pseuds/iero0
Summary: HP Wireless Festive Minifest 2020 | Song: Lonely this Christmas by MudWhatever it was that kept him going after war – be it the prospect of a better future, hope for an autonomous life, or be it just sodding Draco – Harry is done with having dreams now.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 104
Collections: Wireless Festive Minifest 2020





	Lonely this Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladderofyears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/gifts).



> Hi :D  
> This Wireless Festive Minifest fic is based on prompt #36 by my dear friend [emma (Ladderofyears)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/pseuds/Ladderofyears) <3 I really hope that it's what you had in mind and that you'll enjoy reading!
> 
> The fic is based on the song Lonely this Christmas by Mud - it starts off a little angsty, but don't worry! There are no such things as unhappy endings in Christmas fics, I promise!
> 
> HUGE thanks to my beta [fwooshy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fwooshy/pseuds/fwooshy) \- you did such an amazing job <3
> 
> Have fun reading!

Number 12, Grimmauld Place is a house full of history, ranging from the very foundation of the magical constructs – which, really, Harry can only guess – via the Black Family tapestry in the drawing room to all the faces that Harry connects with this place. But its heavy gothic furniture, lurking shadows, and haunting memories taunt Harry’s idea of a merry Christmas this year. 

He has never bothered to change much of the interior of his house. Not even now, more than five years after the final battle, has he decided if this is going to be his permanent home or if he will only stay here for a while. Every time he starts musing about it, he feels like he’s insulting Sirius’ inheritance. The house is a gift, a safe place that is warded and protected just like a family home should be. And mostly, Harry did call Grimmauld Place his _home_. But this illusory notion has left him about a month ago. 

Harry stands there now in the middle of the staircase, unmoving, frozen to his feet.

It doesn’t happen often. But like it used to happen right after the war, Harry stops dead and can’t remember what he’s about to do. He turns on the spot and feels a little dizzy when he’s looking downwards. He turns again, looks upwards and feels even dizzier. His breath quickens.

“You are looking lost. The Saviour shan’t look lost,” Draco said once in a neutral tone during eighth year when they hadn’t even become friends yet. Harry was too bewildered to read his face. Draco waited next to him for as long as it took Harry to breathe through his panic attack. Harry realised that he was at the corner of the corridor where Fred had died, and accidentally told Draco that because he simply was there with him.

“You should consider homeschooling instead of torturing yourself like that,” was all that Draco had to say before he left. He had wrinkled his nose a little in disapproval, but he didn’t sound smug or vitriolic which startled Harry. He didn’t even sound insecure or aloof, which was Draco’s go-to voice in eighth year. It sounded like he shared a thought, perhaps tried to give advice even. Maybe he pitied Harry; Harry couldn’t be sure. It was the first thing he’d said to Harry in person after the war.

There is no one there now to breathe with him. Harry doesn’t have a full fit as he has learned ways to deal with it better. Even alone. He slumps down on one of the steps and counts his breaths, his hands braced on the firm wood beneath him. The ticking sound of a grandfather’s clock echoes through the empty house. Harry wonders if it’s always this audible, even here on the stairway, and his breathing gets better.

When Harry gets up again, he figures he could sit in the drawing room. For a short moment he contemplates getting a cup of tea but decides that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. So he goes up the stairs and instead of sitting on the sharp edge of a step, he sits down on the velvet upholstery of a dark sofa. It doesn’t hurt his arse as much, though it feels equally pointless to sit here.

The drawing room always reminds Harry of Ron and Hermione. Of nights spent together, hiding, plotting, watching out for each other before they had to leave Grimmauld Place for their Horcrux hunt. Five years feel like a lifetime ago or maybe like another life altogether. Maybe it was another life, now that Harry thinks of it.

He looks around the room, but there’s nothing to do. At least nothing that Harry is interested in. There’s the Christmas tree that Ron and Hermione set up with him a few weeks ago. “I get it that you don’t feel like decorating the whole house,” Hermione said, “But a tree makes this room look so much more festive. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” And Ron said, “Well, you still can spend the entire holidays with us, mate. No problem. If Draco-” Hermione slapped Ron’s arm.

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. He busied himself by hanging the fairy lights up the tree. His silence only made Ron and Hermione more talkative, hovering next to him and watching every little furrow of his brows. “It’s fine,” he tried to interrupt, opting for a nonchalant tone that he didn’t quite manage. “You two should enjoy these last few weeks before you’ll have a baby to take care of. I’m sure you’ll appreciate some days at home, not working, not constantly being fussed over by Molly... We’ll see each other on Boxing Day anyway, right?” It was enough to stop their fuss.

It feels really estranging to Harry that Ron and Hermione are going to be parents soon. They’ve been married for two years now – which also still feels peculiar sometimes, even though Harry always knew that they would start a family eventually. He sometimes tries to put a finger on it; what is bothering him? He’s happy for them. More than just happy. He thinks that there’s nothing more wholesome than the fact that his two best friends can be happy together after all that they’ve been through. That their love would be the spawn of new life, a new generation that they could bring up to know better. To do better.

“An heir,” Draco’s posh voice rings in Harry’s mind. “They want me to marry to produce an heir, of course.” Harry laughed then, not sure if Draco was being serious or taking the piss with some ridiculous pureblood customs. “The Malfoy heir.” Draco’s brows were arched up by then and Harry laughed only harder.

Harry inched closer to Draco under the covers and put his hand on Draco’s bare chest, warm from spending the whole morning in bed together. “Well, you’re a poof,” Harry pointed out, still amused. But Draco looked only more startled, brows furrowed instead of raised. “Yes, Potter. How does that matter to my family heritage?”

They had the answer to Draco’s question three years later.

On that evening three years later, Harry tried to get home as soon as possible after working through a few case files. It was his day to take care of dinner and all Draco ever got was takeaway. It infuriated Harry since Draco didn’t even work but mostly studied at home or in the Manor – rather sporadically as far as Harry could tell. So Harry had recently started to put a ridiculous amount of effort into cooking. At home. He wasn’t quite sure if he did so to tease Draco, to make him step up his game in dinner preparation or because he always looked at Harry in the kitchen like the rest of the world suddenly fell out of existence.

This night, however, when Draco Flooed in, Harry quickly lowered the heat so that the pot with potatoes wouldn’t overboil and went over to Draco. He looked pale and wide-eyed which usually meant that he was utterly devastated. “What’s it?” Harry asked and stroked Draco’s hair back, quickly looking him up and down for injuries before hugging him. “Talk to me, Draco.”

There was no talking until it was in the middle of the night. “Harry?” Draco tried and his voice sounded just as calm and collected as Harry would’ve thought. Of course, Harry was still awake and answered. He tried to sneak Draco into a hug for the talk, but Draco was too caught up in his head to cuddle. “I’ve been talking to Father and he wants me to start courting Astoria soon. He thinks we rather marry next year. 

“What?” Harry asked and then again, “ _What?_ ”

“Mother thinks it might appear very ungentlemanly if I’m waiting too long.”

Slowly but surely, Harry processed Draco’s words which set him at a loss of his own words. “You’re a poof,” he said helplessly before his mind could form sentences. “You can’t be serious. What about… this. Us.” He heard Draco’s exhale in the dark. Draco laid still, not moving in the slightest bit, while Harry slowly felt a tremble in his hands. The arm that he laid on went numb unusually quickly while he waited for Draco to say _something_.

“We never talk about this and us.” Draco’s voice was calm but not as distant as Harry would have imagined. This gave him some hope.

“How about we talk about this and us right now? I can’t believe that you-“ He wanted to say ‘that your father comes right out of Azkaban, tells you to get married and you really think of just obeying the order.’ Harry couldn’t help but blame Draco’s family for most of the wrong turns Draco had taken as a teenager. For the fact that Draco had descended on a path of sheer torment without given any chance to reflect upon his ideals as his own person. It wouldn’t have been a good time to address this then, though.

So Harry decided against it. He reminded himself how Draco once had talked to him about all the shame and guilt he felt. About the war, about the way he had given Harry a hard time at Hogwarts. That he had called Hermione a Mudblood. That he almost killed Ron. That he didn’t do more that dreadful day in Malfoy Manor.

“I mean. I wouldn’t want you to, er, _court_ someone. Because I thought that we had… a thing,” Harry ended weakly.

To Harry’s relief, Draco asked. “What are you saying?”

Harry took a deep breath then, mustering some courage. “I’m saying that I thought that we might be in an exclusive relationship. Dating, courting. You name it.”

“Oh,” was all Draco said for a while. Again, Harry tried to wait patiently. The worst thing he could do right now was to push Draco. Push Draco and he’d say something cruel and run. “Well.” It took him several minutes again. “Well, I’m sure you see that we can’t produce an all-natural heir. Without magic, at least. It might be considered rather hedonic to indulge in a relationship like that. It’s disgraceful.” He sounded like he heard that once and repeated it now.

Harry was clenching his teeth by now. “All you keep talking about is how others might judge you for being gay or not having kids. Which we could probably have one way or the other,” Harry ventured to say. “Don’t you think it’s time to get rid of old traditions?”

“There are a lot of old traditions I’ve already put behind me.”

His voice was a little sharp now, so Harry tried to take a step back, desperately trying to get through to him. “Yeah… Yes, you have. I just think… You might want to decide for yourself who you want to date. And spend your life with.” Although they have never talked about _this_ and _us_ , Harry noticed that he had quite some strong feelings in that department.

“Most people do it.”

“Do what?”

“Have some flings before marriage.” Draco’s voice sounded defensive now and he shifted to the side to face Harry even though it was too dark to see each other. “This- Perhaps we could even continue to… I’m still not sure what you’re saying.”

Even if it didn’t help anything, Harry felt quite angry then. “I’m saying that I’m not your fuck toy. Don’t tell me that you don’t love me.” For some reason this just slipped from his mouth. He didn’t mean to say it – at least the last part. No matter how true he thought it to be. Maybe he only wished it to be, all things considered.

“You’re mad,” Draco said really quickly and louder than they had talked before, his voice high. He usually sounded like that when he was on the verge of a panic attack that differed much from those that Harry experienced. “You’re mad. Even if- Marriage is- You can’t be serious about this. I’m meant to be Lord of the Manor. Our reputation has suffered so much and only just now it’s- I’m-“

Draco usually never stuttered. That too, gave Harry some hope. “You want to marry a woman and have children until you have a son like in ye old times?” Harry deadpanned. He was at his wits end. Maybe something like that would help.

“Frankly, yes. Maybe something safe and proper is all I want, Potter. Yes.” There was a bite to Draco’s tone now. “I’d rather not know what people would be saying about the Saviour and the Death Eater.” The desperation and anger had tears rise in Harry’s eyes but after a short silence he felt Draco’s hand on his arm. He spoke softer then, “I didn’t… Look, I guess, I have a duty to fulfil. I’m sure you must understand me from that perspective.”

Even now that Harry sits on this soft sofa in this dull and cold drawing room, he gets infuriated when he thinks about that night. The implications. It’s been two months by now and Draco stayed with him at Grimmauld Place for another two weeks after that. Which had Harry hopeful. Again. But early in December Draco packed his things, thin-lipped and pale and a little shaky. He told Harry in a deliberately civil tone that he wouldn’t want to fall out of touch. They haven’t spoken to each other since.

“ _Accio_ Firewhisky,” Harry says and notes how his voice cracks. He hasn’t spoken for some days now. Probably since he’s been at work for the last time before the holidays. Maybe since he decorated the Christmas tree with Ron and Hermione – Harry is good at keeping to himself while doing paperwork in his cubicle instead of all the field work. He even managed to wiggle out of the Christmas Eve party that everyone kept inviting him to.

He looks at the Christmas tree while he takes a sip of the whisky right from the bottle. It’s smooth but leaves a burning sensation at the same time. The Christmas tree on the other hand is dull and dark. Harry can’t be bothered to light it, even given the fact that he could do so nonverbally. It’s just another reminder of just how _pointless_ this all is. With a second gulp of whisky that burned in his throat, Harry sighs and conjures a glass. It does taste better that way. And it does make him feel less pathetic, even if only a little.

Purposefully, Harry drinks until he feels a little more light-headed and a little less embarrassed with himself. The grandfather’s clock in the corridor is still ticking and his arms and feet start to feel cold. He doesn’t put on a fire but pulls his legs up under his chin. Harry isn’t sure what he’s even supposed to do with his time now.

He turns on the Wizarding Wireless and it’s still on one of the channels that Draco liked to listen to. One of the channels that play lots of oldies and used to remind Harry of Aunt Petunia. Now those songs remind him of the amazement he felt when he heard Draco’s voice lowly singing along every single word. It always hit Harry with a bewildering nostalgia; the way the romantic lyrics, written and sung long before he was born, rolled smoothly from Draco’s lips.

While Harry usually doesn’t care all too much about music, he tries to listen to the Christmas song that’s playing now. A male singer croons long notes in a deep and smooth voice. He thinks that it sounds cheesy. It takes Harry another three songs and another finger of Firewhisky before the music starts to speak to him.

The Christmassy vibe of the songs makes him feel lonelier and more furious. Even though he usually tries to avoid this, he allows himself to dwell in his self-pity. He’s the one who ended a sodding war. Everyone says that he saved the whole wizarding world. And yet he can’t have the one thing he wanted. He fulfilled the prophecy – his duty, as bloody Malfoy would say – and now he is left to rot here in this house that he inherited from his godfather. Who died. Maybe being lovesick would be easier with Sirius. Harry would bet that they would be much more drunk by now and Sirius would put on a more cheerful channel on the Wireless. Sirius would probably sing along loudly, knowing only half the lyrics. Harry would bet on it.

When a slower and sadder song starts on the Wireless, Harry can’t hold back his tears anymore; they stream in hot trails down his stone-cold cheeks. He can’t believe that Draco really left him because of this. Harry is sure that there’s much more to understand about the Malfoy family and to pureblood traditions than he gives Draco credit for right now. Though he couldn’t help but think of how pointless an arranged marriage is. After all that Draco has been through, he would be stuck in a life that he doesn’t want. A wedding band would be but another mark that Lucius imposes upon his son. 

Harry feels embittered now that he thinks about Draco’s perspective of things. Maybe Harry is just a gullible idiot, but Draco is in love with him. He just knows. Harry wishes that he had told Draco that night that he loves him, no matter what. Even if this too was pointless. Now and then. 

By the time he raises his attention to the song on the Wireless again, a man sings “Try to imagine a house that's not a home,” and Harry loses it. He sniffs and sobs and doesn’t care about the fact that he feels sorry for himself. This is not what his life is supposed to be. He has always tried so hard to do good. To be fair. To make the world better. Despite everything that he lost on the way, he has hardly ever felt so empty and hopeless.

He should live a quiet and mundane life now that the love of his life is gone. He cringes at the thought and feels a little pathetic. But he repeats it in his head until it feels better. He has money, he has a job, he has friends. Maybe he can babysit Ron and Hermione’s little one sometimes and pretend he has a family. He can totally do that with Teddy, too. It really isn’t as hard. He can probably live his life without Draco. 

Or maybe he would find someone who’s kind and dear to him. Who tells him that they love him without all the complications and all the history he and Draco share. Someone who’d be proud to hold his hand in Diagon Alley. Someone who’d cook dinner for him, with him. Someone who would take all his emotions and all his rage so that he wouldn’t need to bite back his thoughts just for their sake. 

He laughs when he tries to imagine this life. It’s a laugh that is caustic and dry; bitter and so desperate, so unfamiliar to himself that Harry starts sobbing again. He feels pathetic when he thinks that he shouldn’t have to put up with this. Whatever it was that kept him going after war – be it the prospect of a better future, hope for an autonomous life, or be it just sodding Draco – Harry is done with having dreams now.

After indulging in his misery for quite a while now, Harry feels in need of something nice. He takes another sip of whisky and closes his eyes, trying to think of the best – the very best – moment he has ever been privileged to share with Draco. He tries hard and desperately, but quickly decides that he cannot pick only one. He thinks of the way his alabaster skin looks under his shirt; how his dexterous fingers work with potion ingredients; how meaningful his rare smiles look that sometimes catch Harry by surprise.

Life is so pointless when you are in this house all alone, Harry thinks, calmer now. There is no one. Ron and Hermione would have their baby soon and he has a feeling that this will shut him out. They are the only family he knows but still... It would be nice to spend Christmas with a family that is _his family_. His parents; Sirius. Draco. He tries to imagine what it would be like to spend a Christmas dinner with Draco instead of separated; Harry at the Burrow, Draco at the Manor. He dwells in the feeling for a little while. 

His tears start to dry in the corner of his eyes, on his cheeks and his jaw when he gets up and goes into the bedroom. He considers getting into bed with his clothes on but decides to get rid of his jeans at least.

Harry’s heart feels heavy and his head dizzy when he falls asleep, cold and lonely on his side of the bed. 

~ 

Harry’s eyes fly open and he’s dead sure that he woke from the sound of the flaring Floo. He rubs his eyes that feel dry and burning before he quickly puts on his glasses. His first thought is that something might be wrong. Someone might be hurt. Maybe they need help in the field. Or something is wrong with Hermione, with the baby. With Draco.

Without any hesitation he gets up, stumbles a little from the sudden movement, and rushes to the drawing room.

When he comes in, Draco stands there in one of his favoured black suits. He wears a black jumper underneath the suit jacket which makes his appearance look at least a little more laid-back. Harry can tell from the sight and the smell that his trousers are freshly pressed. His skin and hair look strikingly pale against his clothes. Slate-grey eyes lock right onto Harry’s. However startled Harry is to see Draco in their- in his drawing room, he can’t help but look at him. Draco’s presence is familiar all the same. The thought that Harry could just cross the room and touch his cheek, his hair, his lips elicits a nervous twitch in Harry’s legs and fingertips.

“Good morning. Happy Christmas,” Draco says after observing Harry thoroughly. His tone doesn’t give anything away, unfortunately. But he stands there in his stark black suit with his hands clasped behind his back, and looks a little like he’s here to negotiate something. “You probably thought, this was an emergency – it wasn’t my intention to worry you.”

“Er, yeah, it’s alright. Happy Christmas,” Harry says. He wants to formulate some sort of question, anything to show how glad he was that Draco was here, but finds himself at a lack of words.

“Would you fancy a coffee? And some breakfast. I know it’s rather early. My apologies if I woke you up,” Draco says primly and, still, simply looks at Harry. There’s something in his eyes that Harry has hardly ever seen before. He thinks it might be concern; Draco’s usual negative expressions are either shame, annoyance, or angst on the negative spectrum. Not concern.

“I’d rather get dressed before…” Harry’s voice trails off and he’s a little surprised by the way the muscles in Draco’s throat work.

“Of course,” he says, and Harry quickly retreats to the bathroom. He takes a deep breath when he closes the door behind him. He didn’t opt out of this unexpected scenario only to take a breath, though. He quickly uses the loo and brushes his teeth, splashes his face with some water. The last thing he wants to do is waste time. Harry is much too nervous and hopeful about this. Draco is not here without a reason, he tells himself. He even considers whether he’d be up for a deal that would involve only sex. He feels pathetic but he thinks that he would probably take it right now if it’s all he can get.

By the time Harry enters the kitchen, the table is set with coffee, croissants, jam, cheese and two pieces of treacle tart. He feels his pulse thrum through his body at the sight.

Draco stands up when Harry enters the room which is even more strange than a table full of breakfast. Apparently, Draco is not so sure about what he is doing either. There’s a small gesture with his hands that he abandons quickly. Then he suddenly walks around the small kitchen table and pulls the chair out for Harry. “Please, sit,” Draco says cordially.

His figure is long and slender when he walks back to the other side of the table and Harry feels a little bad that, even now, he feels so awe-struck by his mere presence. It’s unfair, really, this impact Draco has on him. Even more so that Draco obviously is here to talk about something serious. Elsewise, he wouldn’t have bothered to prepare breakfast.

“You’re here to talk,” Harry finds himself saying. He tries not to sound harsh and terse, but he does, so he quickly adds, “I’m glad. That you’re here.” Now that Harry takes a closer look at Draco, he notes that his hair looks different. He combed it more neatly than he usually did. His cheekbones look a little pointier than just three or four weeks ago. Harry almost asks if Draco’s alright, but stops himself.

Draco exhales the breath he’s been holding which means that he will talk now. “I’ve been thinking…” he stops talking again and examines Harry closely. Harry takes a sip of his coffee to ease his own nerves. He looks concerned again and clears his throat. “But before – you look like you didn’t sleep well. Did you catch a cold?”

“Oh, er. No, it’s alright. Just had… Yeah, no – I’m good.” Harry bites his tongue, feeling like an idiot for all his stuttering. He starts eating a croissant to stop himself from talking. 

Draco doesn’t exactly look convinced, but nods and takes another deep breath. It takes Draco a moment to find his voice again. But suddenly all the trouble falls from his face and is replaced with a small smile while his gaze is directed down onto his empty plate.

“During my pre-Hogwarts education, I once had an accident with one of the plants I learned about. My skin grew boils all over and I had to spend a few days in St. Mungos. I acquainted a boy there, about my age – I must’ve been seven or something. We quickly got along quite well. He told me about the school he went to and I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I never heard of one except for Hogwarts. And he was too young for that. Later it turned out that his halfblood parents sent him to a Muggle school before Hogwarts. Back then, I had never heard of such a thing. I figured that everyone was tutored at home, like me. 

“He told me about things they learned there. And he told me that he had some fun activities after his classes. He played football and was in an art class. I asked him if he were to become a sportsman and an artist – why else would his parents choose such peculiar activities. He said that he chose them himself and that he wants to become a firefighter like one of his uncles.

“So when my parents took me home, I announced that I was interested in some extracurricular activities. Like playing the piano or something. Anything, really. I hadn’t decided yet. Father told me that there was no need in playing a piano and I rather spend my time with important things that would teach me to become a good Hogwarts student. I should rather require knowledge and skills that I would need as their offspring and the heir of the Malfoy family. Like proper etiquette, my family tree, traditions, waltzing, courtship rules.

“Mother asked me how I got the idea, so I told them about my new friend and that I wanted to choose what to learn, too. But Father told me that I shouldn’t be so childish and selfish. There were things that are more important than my whims; like family and tradition. He wanted to be proud of me someday, he said. Mother then told me that the other child belonged to a family that wasn’t one of the old ones – the Sacred 28. The boy wasn’t nearly as important and precious as me. She said that a world which was so disorderly might look tempting to me now. But families that pander to their children’s whims like that don’t value the wizarding society the way we did.”

Draco takes a sip of his coffee, still looking down at his empty plate. “I talked to Hermione about this a few days ago. She pointed out that gridlocked concepts are often encouraged early on in life. She could only imagine that the denial of free thinking and being shielded from everything that wasn’t pureblood must ultimately lead to rather stubborn thinking.” A small smile plays around the corners of Draco’s mouth.

Harry doesn’t really know what to say. He kind of expects Draco to continue talking. He’s mesmerised by his flat tone and familiar timbre. But as he doesn’t, Harry asks, “Do you agree with her?”

“Yes,” Draco says and briefly looks up to meet Harry’s gaze. “I realized that I’ve been thinking about the Dark Mark every time. Whenever I try to think about the things I need to change about myself, my thoughts revolve around the war. But I didn't realize that my parent's ideals were ingrained in nearly everything that I did.”

“Like arranged pureblood marriages?” Harry ventures to say, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Like arranged pureblood marriages. And like the prospect of never working a day in my life as Lord Malfoy. Like residing in the Manor.” Draco downs the rest of his coffee and shakes his head and purses his lips. He then takes one of the pieces of treacle tart and put’s the other one on Harry’s plate. “I never liked the Manor ever after the war.”

Harry knows that this is an understatement. There were rooms at the Manor that Draco never dares to enter. “So…” Harry swallows hard and tries his tart before he speaks. The familiar sweet taste fills his mouth and reminds him of the fact that Draco brought food and coffee for him. On Christmas morning. “So are you here to tell me that you won’t start courting the girl?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and Harry’s heart skips a beat. He feels like getting up and snogging Draco senseless, but decides that he should wait with that. At least a moment since Draco is sporting his no-nonsense face.

“I made my decision yesterday. I would have Flooed in last night, but… I know how… steamy we get. I was afraid you might think I’d just see you as my paramour. Or as you put it,” Draco clears his throat, “as my fuck toy.”

A little laughter escapes Harry’s mouth as he watches the way Draco crinkles his nose. “So, I get a promotion?” 

“You will have to decide if you want that.” Even though Harry would have expected Draco to smirk at him, Draco still looks very earnest. “I thought about you, me – _us_. Only because we didn’t speak about us doesn’t make it less true. We’ve been in a relationship for four years now. Four years and two months.”

“Draco, I…” Never would Harry have thought that a simple confession could evoke such a relief in him. He feels awe-struck at the power that Draco’s words have on him; banishing all the gloom and despair that have lingered on his whole Advent season. Harry wants to stand up and put his snogging plans into action now, but Draco stops him and takes his hand. The touch is unfamiliar – only in the slightest – and Harry notices that Draco’s signet ring with the Malfoy family crest is missing.

“Please, let me finish first. See… Please, you must understand that I had a different kind of perspective. I was raised to think differently of marriage than you. But I understand now. The _true_ reason why people should think about marriage at all. It has nothing to do with an heir and the family tree. And certainly, it’s not about pureblood relations.”

Draco pauses and his grip is tighter now. Harry can’t help but interrupt him. “Where’s your ring, Draco?” he asks with a sense of foreboding.

Draco smiles down at their hands. “Well, Father and I had quite an argument about marriage, sexual orientation and free will. He and Mother threatened to disinherit me. Though, it’s not official yet.”

A weird mixture of pride and guilt fills Harry’s chest. He hasn’t really thought about the consequences if Draco doesn’t follow his family’s traditions. Harry wouldn’t even be surprised if there was a contract for the arranged marriage that Draco is about to breach. “I had no idea,” Harry whispers and stands up now. Draco gets up with him this time, still holding onto Harry’s hands. “Why would they be so quick with that?”

“Because I didn’t only tell them that I wouldn’t court Astoria. I told them that I will follow my heart. They weren’t really a fan of my ideas. What it would mean…” Draco takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds. His hands feel cold but a little clammy all the same. Harry can’t possibly think of anything that would be hard for him to speak out loud, though. Draco’s words can only mean that he told his parents that Harry isn’t a fling. 

Just when Harry wants to ask, “What?” Draco opens his mouth again, sounding a little out of breath. “This is anything but perfect, but maybe that’s exactly how to show you that I really mean it. No courtship gift, no ring, no genuflexion.” Another deep breath. “You were right – _I do love you_ , Harry. Will you marry me?”

Harry’s mind is just blank for a moment, slowly processing Draco’s words. Then his chest feels like imploding and he can’t do anything but pull Draco into a rib breaking hug. “Yes,” he sobs several times and presses Draco as close against his body as possible; his hands grabbing for his hips, his back, his shoulders, his hair. Draco hugs him back just as desperately. Harry can’t believe his luck right now.

“Just to make this clear from the outset,” Draco chokes a laugh or a sob; Harry can’t be quite sure. “I’m not asking you to become a Malfoy. I’m asking you to make me a Potter.” Harry can feel the smile and taste the tears on Draco’s lips when they kiss, tightly holding onto each other.


End file.
